It Takes an Ocean Not to Break
by Finnicks
Summary: From the box of letters John wrote to Sherlock after the fall. John thinks he keeps seeing Sherlock but assumes he's just getting a bit lonely. His therapist suggests he finally admits his feelings through letters. Post-Reichenbach. Eventual Sherlock/John
1. March

Alright, so I'm trying something a little new. Lemme know what you think/if I should keep going. I DO plan on giving the story more of a plot in the next chapter, which I'm working on this very moment, but I just wanted to get this chapter out as soon as possible. Hope you enjoy~

Listening to: Terrible Love, The National

* * *

><p><span>March<span>

Dear Sherlock,

I can't help but think any day now you might saunter through the door, looking haughty as ever and demand to know where I hid those damn nicotine patches. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see your silhouette appear on the sidewalk outside our flat—yes, I still think of it as our flat—but when I turn to look again, it's gone.

It happened the other day. I went out to get some milk, and even that reminded me of you, and came back to see a tall, dark figure outside Mrs. Hudson's little shop. I could have sworn it was you, Sherlock, as silly as it sounds. Then some homeless man came up to me asking if I could spare a few coins, and I looked away. When I looked back over to the shop, the figure was gone. I almost thought I imagined the whole bloody thing.

I'm still living at 221b, in case you were wondering. At first it was too painful for me to go back, I couldn't bear the thought of the place with out you in it. Without your microscopes and strange experiments, without the weird body parts in the fridge. The thought of _not _being woken up in the middle of the night to go racing through London on some crazy adventure was almost too much to handle.

Out of everything, I think I miss that the most, Sherlock. You dragging me off on some wild romp across the country side or down some strange city alleyway. Not knowing where I might end up in the next twenty four hours, not knowing what trouble, what danger, we might have gotten ourselves into.

We. Because we were a team, Sherlock, and I miss that too. More than anything. In the army, I always heard blokes talking about how the bond between two soldiers is deeper and more fulfilling than any romantic partnership could ever be. I never really understood it though, the idea of feeling completely and wholeheartedly myself around someone else.

I trusted my unit with my life, I trusted the doctors I worked with. But I think I understand it now, because I never trusted any of them as much as I trusted you. I still trust you, Sherlock. I still believe in you.

My therapist wants me to "get it out of my system". I dunno what that really means, though. Get what out of my system, you? Well, I doubt that will ever really happen. I only knew you for eighteen months, Sherlock, but I will never forget you. She asked about my blog, how it was going. I told her I deleted it. It had gotten too much bad publicity after the newspapers started publishing the stories.

It's the worst, Sherlock, the press. They publish these awful stories about you, they say awful things. Some are so far fetched and ridiculous I am shocked that people really buy this stuff. It's horrendous. Sometimes I see pity in peoples' eyes when they recognize me. It's almost as if they're thinking, _poor bloke, got conned into being the sidekick of a psychopath. Now look where he is, poor fellow. _I can't bear talking to people like that.

Anyhow, my therapist said I should take up writing again. She said anything would be good for me. I guess that's why I'm writing, because my limp is coming back and I scared if I don't pull it together I have to start using that damn cane again.

I'm sorry, I just slipped up a little. I've been working really hard to move on, Sherlock, and it's so hard. Thinking of the cane reminded me of when I forgot in the restaurant that first night we had dinner together. The first adventure, it feels like a lifetime ago, and yet like it was only yesterday.

Okay, when this happens my therapist said I should breathe and focus on the present. Alright so, I'm sitting in our, no that's not right, in _the_ flat in the big armchair. I'm wearing a striped jumper you'd find especially appalling. Mrs. Hudson and I have cleared a lot of your things out of the main rooms, although I can't bring myself to un-stick the pen knife from the mantle.

We put it all in your room, your things, packed it all up into several cardboard boxes and just left in there. I haven't been in there since we did it. I don't know why I keep it all, I guess the idea that you could come home any time comforts me. And of course, when you came home you'd want your things.

I know it's not right to think like that. I can't help it sometimes, though. I get so carried away in a memory I'll forget to go to work. And when I finally shake myself awake my knee will be stiff and I'll get sad all over again because I know you'll never come in through the front door muttering about Lestrade or Mycroft again.

Even though this will just go into the empty shoebox I keep some writings in and that will get shoved under my bed, I feel closer to you than I have since that last awful day. Writing's funny like that. Memories are funny. I feel like I could reach out and touch you, but there's whole universes between us. So I guess I'll just keep writing, and try to make that bridge between us.

It's so different without you, Sherlock. I feel empty when I wake up, like all the adventure has gone out of the world, and out of me. I miss you more than I care to admit to myself, more than I care to admit to anyone. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, I can't believe you're gone.

Sincerely,  
>John<p> 


	2. April

April

Sherlock,

It's really strange being able to sit at my laptop without you coming over and poking into my business. Most of the time we always ended up using our laptops at the same time, remember? I miss the sound of you typing across the room from me. I miss hearing you sigh about the boring case files Lestrade used to send you, and I miss that comfortable silence we shared. Sometimes I look up expecting you to be there. But, of course, you're not. I wish you'd just come back and say that it was all just a big experiment. A big joke. I wouldn't even be mad, well, that's a lie. I would be furious, but I would get over it. I'd be happy to see you, Sherlock. I would.

And I know if I got mad, you'd do some ridiculous things to make up for it. You're such a genius, but anything concerning feelings—especially other people's feelings—you're like a little boy again. All temper tantrums and sweet little gifts of consolation.

Sometimes I really cannot wrap my head around the fact that you're gone, Sherlock. Once, I had a dream that you never jumped, that you simply left because you were bored of me and my "tiny brained" antics. I woke up feeling sad, but in a different way than I had been accustomed to these past months. It was a bittersweet feeling of longing and nostalgia; because you had left, but I knew that you were alive. And somewhere in the wide world you were off solving crimes and running about cities, probably wearing that stupid deerstalker. I just wished, with everything I had, that I could be with you.

But it was just a dream, and you always have to wake up from dreams. Wake up and face reality. It took a while to shake the feeling, but eventually it ebbed away and I ended up just feeling hollow again.

I told my therapist about my dream, and how real it all felt. She looked at me with a new kind of concern, I think she'd thought I was finally getting better. I don't think I am, Sherlock. I think that when you died you took a piece of me that can never be replaced. And God, it hurts. Some days I wake up feeling like a have a gaping hole in my gut, other days the wound is located somewhere a little to the left of my my ribcage.

You'll never believe what happened to me today, Sherlock. I was walking to get some dinner a few streets over, and let me just deviate a little to say, the whole bloody city reeks of you. Memories of you are strung about this city like flags, buildings cry out stories of your adventures in their very architecture. It's painful walking past a place and having ten thousand memories of you, of us, throw themselves at you. You certainly have left an impression, Sherlock Holmes. London will never forget you, that's for sure. I can't bear it sometimes, the thought of leaving the flat and having to face a world without you in it.

Back to the peculiar event that happened today. I was just walking, trying not to look at too many things that reminded me of you, and a cab pulled up beside me. "I have a cab for Mr. Watson?" The cabbie said, looking at a piece of paper he held in his hand.

At first, as stupid this may sound, I thought it was you, that you'd sent the cab and I would finally get to see you again. But I immediately squashed the hope swelling in my chest and forced myself back to reality, as bleak as it was. See, Sherlock, this is what grief does to normal people. It's like a disease, it makes them crazy, makes them think and see strange things. And unfortunately, I'm plagued with it.

I shook my head at the cabbie; not thinking of serial killer cabbies, _not _thinking about serial killers, pills, a gunshot, oh dear... It all comes rushing back to me, threatening to overwhelm me. A Study In Pink, our first case together. I shut my eyes tight, trying to breathe and let the memories pass. After all, that's all they are, memories.

When I open my eyes there's a gun pointed straight at my chest. "Who the hell are you?" I asked the cabbie, who just looked at me. I figured I didn't have much of a choice so I got into the cab. Ringing for help wasn't an option, I'd left my mobile at the flat.

Well, Sherlock, you'd never believe what ended up happening. Obviously I'm okay because I'm sitting back at home writing this, but it was your damn brother the whole time. God, he loves to be dramatic, doesn't he? He went the whole nine yards with the cab and everything. Can you believe it? After all this time, Mycroft is still kidnapping me off the streets just so he can talk to me.

It gets a little fuzzy after that, though. I may just have been turning the things he said around because I wasn't really listening but I think he said something like, "Now, John. I know you're still grieving but it might be best if you started moving on. It's the best for everyone, even him. Let the world forget Sherlock Holmes, it's the best for everyone. You never know who could be watching... For starters, how about moving out of that dismal little flat? Maybe you could get yourself a deal through Lestrade, I know he can pull some strings..."

"I don't want to see Lestrade." I remember saying. "I don't want to see anyone, I don't want to move, and I don't want to forget him. Just 'cause you can do that so easily doesn't mean we all can." I left after that. Ignoring Mycroft's pursed lips and reproachful silence as I walked away.

Looking back on the event, I can't help but think how strange it was, Sherlock. Why would Mycroft got to all the trouble of kidnapping me just to talk about my feelings? It's so unlike him... Maybe he has some other motive that I don't know about.

I should probably end here, Mrs. Hudson is calling me to check on her hip. All this rain we've been getting is making her stiff. My leg too, a bit. Damn thing.

Yours,

John x


End file.
